


The Care and Feeding of Your Very Pregnant Grimm

by Xela



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Humor, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pregnant Grimms are terrifying.  Case in point: Nick Burkhardt, Consort to the King of Portland, darling of Portland's Violent Non-Humans Task Force, and unrepentant trouble magnet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Jesus, kid, slow down! We won’t be able to _help_ if we’re splattered on the street!” This was life’s payback, Monroe was sure. A misspent youth falling in with a blutbad gang, risking his life DAILY these days as an officer of the VNTF--Violent Non-Humans Task Force--only to die at the hands of an 18 year old recruit with no sense of self preservation since his regular partner was inconveniently on maternity leave. “RODDY!” The car took out a series of trashcans with a sickening crunch.

“Sorry!” Roddy whooped.

“You are explaining that to Adalind,” Monroe muttered darkly. Requisitions was a dark, scary place. On a good day.

Roddy pulled up to an unassuming house, tires squealing. The door was on the front lawn. Monroe was out of the car and half way to the house, claws and fangs extended, before Roddy turned off the engine.

Siegbarste. Monroe growled and stalked forward, keeping to the shadows until--blood. _Nick’s_ blood. Forgoing subtlety for shock and claw, he burst into the kitchen prepared for a fight. He got a pan to the face.

“Stand down! Nick! Stop--that’s _Monroe._ ”

“What the _fuck,_ dude?” Monroe whined.

“Holy shit.” Roddy’s eyes went wide and he shrank back under the weight of their gazes--an angry blutbad, a murderous regnant and...and Nick were a little much for a rat to deal with at once.

“Monroe, Roddy, thank you for your prompt response,” Renard said, keeping a firm hold of Nick’s wrist, something Monroe was very grateful for since he was still holding a cast iron skillet and was, demonstrably, totally willing to use it. “As you can see, Nick took care of Mr. Stark.”

Roddy and Monroe both looked down at the siegbarst, to Nick and his skillet, to the gaping, inches-deep talon marks in the siegbarst’s chest, and back to Renard.

“Right,” Roddy said disbelievingly. Renard turned his attention to Roddy and his eyes, briefly, flared gold.

“Great job, Nick!” Monroe said cheerfully.

“I hit him,” Nick said, knuckles white around the panhandle. “He wanted. He wanted to _eat...”_ Renard caught the pan before it fell to the ground and handed it off to Monroe.

“He’s dead, no one’s eating anyone, especially not...” Renard sighed but forged on, “Peanut.” Nicks hands immediately flew to his distended belly. (And seriously, Monroe didn’t agree with Roddy about a lot, but why a dude would voluntarily go through childbearing was...beyond him. By a few miles.)

“I will kill them,” Nick said, a hint of Marie Kessler creeping into his voice, and Grimmed so hard Roddy squeaked and scurried out of the room.

“Yes, you can kill all the bad guys,” Renard said, rubbing a soothing hand over Nick’s back. Monroe, personally, doubted the wisdom of giving a pregnant Grimm carte blanche to kill “all the bad guys” but wisely kept his mouth shut. “But first, let’s go upstairs so we can--”

“No.” Nick pulled away from Renard and glared. Renard froze, sensing danger.

“No?”

“No.” Nick looked absolutely mutinous, which Monroe knew from long experience meant there was no reasoning with him and you were about to run headlong into danger without backup.

“Okay. What do you want to do?” Nick’s eyes darted around the room but always came back to the siegbarste.

“I want to leave. This isn’t safe.”

“Alright,” Renard said, his voice still low and soothing. “Do you feel safe with Monroe?” Monroe felt a totally unwanted kinship with Roddy when Nick’s Grimmy eyes fell on him, assessing.

“Yes.”

“Okay, how about Monroe takes you back to the station while I clean up. How’s that sound?” Nick frowned and one hand brushed unconsciously over his belly. Monroe held his breath.

“Ok. Let’s go.” Monroe followed Nick out of the house, acutely aware of Renard’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. Seriously, bossman didn’t really need to _tell_ him no one would find his body parts if Nick or the baby got hurt. Monroe took that as a given.

Nick climbed into the passenger seat and settled in with a happy sigh like he owned the place. Which, seeing as he always made Monroe drive, it kind of was.

Roddy rode silently in the back.

***

Renard knew something was up the moment he set foot in the precinct. His people were always very aware of him and it gave the bullpen a certain cadence. That was very different from how they were all studiously ignoring him.

So Renard approached the first person he spotted.

“Rabe.”

“Maje--Capt---Uh. Renard.” Frank Rabe was not a man given to nervousness or breaches of protocol. Given the evidence, Renard drew the only possible conclusion.

“Where is Nick?”

“In your office. Sir.” Renard waived his legal affairs consultant off and headed to his office. The bullpen seemed to quiet with every step he took until the entire department was holding its collective breath. The blinds were drawn. Renard slowly opened his door, took in his office, and slowly slid it shut again.

“Monroe.”

“I would just like to remind you that I’m your Nick’s BFF.” 

“Where did all of the cushions come from?”

“The couch in the break room, the couches in the small conference room, Hank and Wu are the least favorite detectives in homicide, and all of the crash beds are now pillowless.”

“You let him _nest_ ,” Renard hissed, “in my _office._ ”

“LET?! I _let_ \--” Monroe became aware of all the very curious ears turned their direction and dragged Renard further away for a little bit of privacy. “I did not LET your pregnant Grimm mate do anything! I _avoided death_ by letting him do what made him feel safe.” Renard glared but Monroe didn’t back down; this was not a Royal matter and though he desperately wanted to pull rank Monroe is Nick’s best friend.

“Fine. I’ll just go...”

“Yeah. You do that.”

Renard watched Monroe go and then, before he could over think it, slipped into his office and shut the door. Nick had pushed his desk all the way to the far wall and covered it with sheets and blankets. He’d piled all the cushions and pillows around and on the couch--which had been pushed to a much more defensible position up against one of the walls.

“Hi, Nick.” Nick looked at him suspiciously from the center of the nest he’d built himself around Renard’s couch.

“Sean.”

“You look...very comfortable.” Nick’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I am.”

“Good. I’m glad. When, roughly, do you think you’ll be ready to go home?” Renard asked in what he thought was a neutral and non-judgmental tone. Except for the way Nick’s eyes started to water and he shrank back against the couch and looked utterly pathetic.

“Home?” A big, fat tear slid down Nick’s cheek. Renard felt panic bubbling up in his chest. He could deal with Nick in any of his incarnations--confused Nick, angry Nick, in-over-his-head Nick, sex-wrecked Nick (a personal favorite--but he had no idea how to deal with tears. “But it’s safe here. There’s Monroe, and Frank, and they’ll rip anyone apart, and Barry has a gun--which might not be a great idea, we should talk about that--and Hank and Wu _promised_ they’d check in and I used to work with all those guys so I know them, and there’s Sherry--”

“Sherry’s a _mole._ ”

“She makes really good pie!” Nick said. He burrowed further into his next of cushions and just looked...miserable. Renard sighed, again, and leaned back against the desk.

“So you’re saying that you feel safe here but not at home. For a lot of factors that cannot be easily recreated at home.”

“...yes?”

“Right.” Renard scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay.” Nick watched him worriedly as he yanked open the door. “Geiger! Find somewhere else to sit, I’m commandeering your desk!”

(“What? You can’t--”

“Shut up, Roddy! Jesus, you have less sense of self preservation than I thought!”)

“Fraser! Vecchio! You know that thing with the performance arsonist you’re _still_ apologizing for? You will check every hour on the hour that Detective Burkhardt is happy, and comfortable, and doesn’t need anything, do you understand me? Good. Get back to what you were doing.” Renard slammed the door shut and turned to find Nick beaming at him in a way that made Renard’s stupid heart do stupid things. He sighed, this time at himself. 

Realistically though, he was pretty sure he could come up with a solution by tomorrow. And if not...two weeks wasn’t _that_ long.


	2. Chapter 2

Renard stared down at his broken keyboard until another one appeared in front of him and he heard the telltale click of the USB connecting. He took a breath and continued typing.

“Sean!” Several keys went flying across the desk when his control broke and his talons snagged on the keyboard. He hadn’t slipped since he was _fifteen_ and deep in the throes of puberty. Nick’s pregnant neurosis was going to give him a complex.

Renard glared at his screen (since glaring at Nick was inadvisable), took a deep breath (because screaming at the top of his lungs was out of the question), and turned around with a smile (that was just this side of terrifying, judging how Geiger and Vandross hit the ground immediately).

“Yes, Nick? What can I do for you.” Nick shifted from foot to foot and rubbed his belly distractedly.

“Your office.”

“I think we can all agree it’s your office now, Nick,” he said wearily. 

“Good. Because it’s the wrong color.” The entire bullpen went quiet. Renard made a note to make Monroe do something very unpleasant in the near future for snickering.

“The...wrong color.” Nothing in his very long and sordid life had prepared Renard for this. Not Regnant politics, the first time he’d clawed his way onto a throne, the first Grimm who’d tried to kill him. None of the various and sundry Creatures under his jurisdiction. Nick surpassed them all. In the collective.

“Yes.”

“After three days?”

“I took me a while to figure it out.” Apparently, Monroe had a _death wish._

“Alright.” Sean scrubbed a hand through his hair as he ran through and discarded several scenarios--Nick wouldn’t leave the precinct for anything (even food), they couldn’t kick him out of his nest to paint, the mere mention of home meant instant tears. Maybe a spell? With Nick firmly on the other side of the building, naturally. “What colors aren’t wrong?”

“Um.” Nick blinked at him and bit his lip. “The ones...not...in your office?” Renard struggled with arousal (the lip biting thing was one of Nick’s favorite come ons) and unending frustration (because _what the fuck,_ Nick?). Nick ducked his head like a naughty schoolboy and looked up through his lashes. Renard felt the impulse to shift and wrap himself around his mate and give him whatever he wanted, because he was distressed and that was not okay. A few of the braver officers might even say Nick’s distress made Renard _edgy._

“I’m sure we have some color swatches somewhere around here. Right, Geiger?” Roddy was up and gone like a shot, ostensibly to find a color swatch, possibly never to be heard from again.

“You could always try tapestries,” Monroe called out. Nick brightened at that.

“Like the ones with unicorns?” Nick said _unicorns_ like a thirteen year old girl who’d just discovered something better than horses. Pregnant mate or not, Renard was not wallpapering his office with unicorns.

“Sirs?”

“I think there’s a Lisa Frank sale at the mall,” Monroe the soon-to-be-dead Bastard said. “Claire’s is about to get it’s winter stock in, stuff’s going dirt cheap.”

“Oh, I used to _love her_ in high school,” Nick sighed. “With those bright colors and the big moons and, oh my god, the rainbows! I fucking love rainbows.”

“Unicorns are mean and have very unpleasant personalities,” Renard said. Nick turned to him looking hurt, eyes watering and--no. Renard would be strong. He would be strong because the alternative was Lisa Frank and a reemerging of his 90s-era PTSD. His mother had survived the Inquisition and still spoke of the 90s with hushed and reverential horror.

“Sirs!”

“What, Fraser?” Renard snapped.

“Fraser!” Nick said happily. He was pretty much the only person Nick was constantly cheery around, which Renard attributed to the fact that Fraser seemed to know what Nick was craving before Nick knew, and almost always had it on him. Sure enough, Nick held out his hand and Fraser obligingly handed him a bunch of Brach's Strawberry Bon-Bons. Vecchio muttered something dark under his breath that Renard didn’t bother to hear because it all amounted to _I’m jealous and want to bone my partner._

“Did you need something, detective?” Renard asked.

“I believe I have found a solution to your problem.” He motioned towards Renard’s office. Nick waddled towards it munching on his bonbons.

“Oh my god, you fixed it!” Nick made an undignified noise that he usually kept bottled up inside but could get away with because he was pregnant.

Renard cautiously stepped into the room. Fraser had removed all the lampshades and covered the light bulbs with...colored plastic. It changed the light output and cast the walls in various shades of red, yellows, and blues.

Nick actually went over to pet one of the walls.

“I was completely fucking with you about the unicorn thing, but this--I mean I know it’s still wrong underneath but I can kind of ignore it. It’s like magic!”

“Actually, it’s a very simple solution I picked up during my time with the Tuktuyaaqtuuq community theater company. I used a couple of different colored gels I acquired from the--”

“Fraser.” Sean said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut up.”

“Very good, sir.”

Nick stepped back and smiled but there was something off about it.

“Is there something else?” Renard asked warily. 

“What? Oh, no, this is great. Really, it’s just...just swell.” Swell? Even Fraser, who was often the champion of Missing the Subtext, sensed danger and braced himself. “It’s just...” Fraser left so fast Renard couldn’t even track him. “...I mean, the lights are kind of bright. Just shy of blinding, but it’s not terrible. Or anything. I could deal with it. You know, if I have to. It’s great, you’re great, your office is... I don’t mean to be a pain, am I being a pain? You’ve been so good about this and--”

“No, Nick. You’re not being a pain. You’re just being...” A Grimm that happened to be pregnant with a Regnant’s offspring who was in hyper-protective nesting mode following a potentially fatal Creature attack. “...safe.” The beaming smile and crushing hug from Nick was almost worth the suffering.

Then his back twinged and he realized that nothing was worth sleeping another night on the couch or a precinct crashbed, and this shit had to stop. 

***

Monroe was in the middle of cooking a truly delicious repast when someone started pounding furiously on his door. Days gone by, he would have assumed it was Nick, come to ruin his life. He secreted his gun on his person and went to answer the door, and realized that those days weren’t so far gone.

“Hi!” Monroe was engulfed in a slightly awkward hug and left staring at his King, who was doing and admirable job of looking both irritated and smug, as his best friend disappeared into Monroe’s house like he owned the joint.

“Nick left the precinct!” Monroe realized.

“No. Nick moved out of the precinct.” It took a minute for Monroe’s brain to jump start itself and put the pieces together.

“Oh no.”

“Your King needs you, Monroe.”

“No no no no no.”

“Your best friend needs you. He’s been _suffering._ ” Monroe glared. That was low down and dirty.

“This goulash tastes amazing, what did you put in it, Monroe?” Nick called from the kitchen.

“Burkhardt! No! Bad Grimm! Get away from my kitchen!” Monroe (gently) shoved Nick away from the stovetop and tried to save his food. “Why are you here?”

“It smelled so good--”

“Not the kitchen! I can see what you’re doing in my kitchen, you’re _ruining my goulash._ Why are you in my house?”

“Oh. Well. I mean, after Sean I feel safest with you.”

“Oh, so you thought since your house is all ogre-fied, you could just come crash with me?” It didn’t come out quite as sarcastic as Monroe was aiming for.

“See? I knew you’d get it!” Monroe felt kind of Grinch-like, with his heart growing two sizes too large. Or however that went. But he had a reputation to maintain and if Nick was planning to move into his house, that meant _Renard_ was going to move into his house.

“Hey, guys. We stopped by Ken’s and grabbed some croissants.” Hank put a few boxes on Monroe’s kitchen table. A few too many boxes for Monroe’s peace of mind.

“Hank! You have to taste the goulash!” Nick said happily.

“What is Hank doing--Wu?” The last time Monroe had met either of the homicide detectives they’d accused him of murder, non-Reformation, and Nick had come into his Grimm powers. He wasn’t a terribly big fan of homicide.

“Monroe. You’re looking less scruffy that usual. Nick! You’re huger. One week till you pop!” Wu was just filled with tact.

“What is homicide doing here? Are you psychic?” Monroe asked suspiciously. At least Hank seemed to think he was funny. (Except he was kind of being serious.)

“It’s our shift,” Hank said, as if that made any sense at all. Wu smirked at him and stole a beer out of the fridge.

“Shift,” Monroe repeated. Which is when Renard swooped in.

“Right, here’s your copy of the schedule.” Renard handed Monroe a thick sheaf of papers. Each day was divided into two-hour blocks, two names apiece filled in. “Since you live here, you don’t have an official shift. ”

“What the hell, dude?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I hate you. I hate you all.” Renard patted him on the head, and were he anyone other than the King of Portland, Monroe would have bitten his hand off. As it was, he just sighed and started flipping through the schedule. And paused. “Wait. Wait, Renard! Why does this go for three months? Nick’s due in like, a week, and. No. Are you--you cannot _raise your baby in my house!”_


End file.
